Chapter Text
“What do you mean, like right through the skull?”
“Guess so. Shot in the head, is what they say. No matter how you do it, that’ll cause a mighty bit of damage.”
“So how’d he get fixed, then? Mr. New Vegas says ‘full recovery.’ You think he got one of them auto-docs?”
“In Goodsprings? Doubt it. Maybe he’s part ghoul or something, and the radiation healed him.”
“Nah, I bet he don’t even exist. Just some story Mr. New Vegas made up to pass the time. Bet half of the crazy shit he reports ain’t true.”
Six stood up and crossed the floor of the Wrangler, weaving between the empty tables. It was late, and most of the customers had retired to their rooms, alone or otherwise. Six approached the two women sitting near the stage and pushed his brown hair away from his forehead so they could see the scar that spread across his skin.
“The bullet missed most of the important parts. Didn’t get lodged in very far. A Securitron pulled me out of the grave and took me to a doctor. I was out cold for three days. Now I got migraines and severe amnesia,” he reported as if reciting a list of facts. As far as he was concerned, that’s all the story was. Six couldn’t remember anything that happened before being shot. His whole life was a blank. Hearing about his past always seemed to tickle something inside his head, but he couldn’t tell if these were memories or just stories he clung to in order to fill the space. He supposed it didn’t really matter. There were bigger things to worry about.
“Wait, you’re him? The courier?” one of the women said, mouth agape. She had a glassy-eyed expression that was only exacerbated by her obvious drunkenness. “Well damn! Sit down, let me get you a drink!”
“Hold on now Marie,” chimed in the other woman. She looked more put-together than her companion. “How do we know you’re really him?” she asked, addressing Six. “Everybody this side of the Colorado has heard that story, you could just be someone pretending. Tryin’ to take advantage of our good nature and all,” she said wisely.
“Not trying to take advantage of no one,” Six assured her. “How can I prove it to you?”
“Gita, it don’t matter who he is, look at him,” Marie said in what was apparently supposed to be an aside. Six fought down a chuckle, pretending not to have heard. “Sit down,” Marie invited, turning back to him. Six sat. “You been in Freeside long?”
“No, just got in this evening, actually. Haven’t seen much yet,” Six explained.
“Not much to see,” Gita pointed out. “Just the Kings hassling those NCR goons and the Followers holed up in that fort, trying to deal with the aftermath.”
When he’d first heard of the conflicts gripping the Mojave, Six wasn’t interested. After waking up in Doc Mitchell’s house and hearing the story of what had happened to him, his only goal had been finding answers. He wanted revenge too, of course, but even that took a backseat to figuring out who Benny was and why he’d gone through the trouble of killing a lowly courier. But local politics had followed Six like a shadow. He was beginning to resign himself to the fact that eventually he’d have to choose a side. Even if that side was his own.
The group passed a few amiable hours together, with Marie laying down heavy hints that Six should join her and Gita in their room. Six politely declined, telling them that he had business to attend to in the morning. Gita gave him a thankful glance and used that as her excuse to finally lead Marie upstairs and away from the bar. Six finished his drink and turned in as well, feeling a pleasant buzz from the alcohol and company. It had been a long while since he’d been able to relax.
In the room the Garrett twins had given him, he washed his face with the dirty water from the sink, then examined his reflection as best he could in the cracked mirror. The ugly scar spread out from a central point above his right eyebrow, creeping over his skin like a fungus. It gave him a rather menacing look, so many people had been surprised to find him so helpful and charming. But he’d found that charm was one of the easiest ways to get what he wanted, and the citizens of the Mojave usually returned the treatment given to them. Six intended to follow that example.
He didn’t seen Gita and Marie when he left the Wrangler the next morning, which was just as well, but he remembered something Gita had mentioned. The Kings seemed to be the ruling gang in town, and Six thought it only appropriate that he pay them a visit.
About half an hour later, he left the King’s School of Impersonation. There was a lot he didn’t understand about the group—the clothes, the jargon, the weird dance moves—but what mattered was that he understood that the King was a powerful potential ally. Six was happy to do odd jobs for him and play the obedient lackey if it meant getting a good reputation. He wandered to the other end of town, glancing about nervously, playing the part of a scared and innocent tourist. He was dressed for it too: he’d left most of his good armor and weapons at the Kings’ so as to not look too self-sufficient. It didn’t take long for Orris to spot him.
“You look like someone who could use some protection,” Orris said, his voice bombastic and conceited. Six hated him right off the bat.
“Oh, uh, yeah I suppose so. I’m trying to get to the Strip,” Six said meekly.
“Well, you’re in luck. I can get you there safe and sound, for a small fee,” Orris said. “200 caps will guarantee you the best protection Freeside has to offer.”
“Really? You’re that good?” Six said hopefully. “Here, here you go.” He handed over the money the King had given him, appearing eager and relieved.
“Follow me. Don’t wander off. You never know where danger might be lurking,” Orris said, leading the way down the street. Six followed, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. Orris gave him a little tour, mostly of places Six had already seen. The Wrangler and Silver Rush were familiar to him already, and he recognized the Old Mormon Fort when they passed by. It was hard to miss the junkies staggering in and out of the gates.
“Hold on. I don’t like the look of this,” Orris said, ushering Six down a side street. Six followed, still glancing around nervously, watching Orris out of the corner of his eye at all times. Orris ran ahead a few paces and suddenly fired at an attacker Six had barely noticed. It was as if Orris had known where the ambush would be. “What did I tell you? Can’t be too careful. Good thing you’re with me, otherwise who knows what could have happened.”
“Wow, it was almost like you saw them before they even jumped out at you,” Six said, trying to keep his tone light and incredulous.
“That’s because I know how to do my job,” Orris bragged. “Let’s keep moving.”
“Yeah, I suppose these guys can only play dead for so long,” Six said flatly. He’d had enough of this. “They aren’t even bleeding. Some con you’ve got going here.”
Orris glared at him, the cockiness on his face turning slowly to rage. “They might not be bleeding, but you’re about to be,” he said before pulling his fist back and punching Six in the jaw. Six staggered, momentarily caught off balance, before righting himself and dodging Orris’ next punch. The man was wearing metal armor, leaving very little flesh vulnerable, but Six managed to get a hit on the other man’s face. As soon as his fist connected, Six felt someone hit him in the ribs with some blunt weapon: one of Orris’ accomplices had gotten to her feet and joined the brawl. Soon it was three-on-one, and it was all Six could do to stay on his feet and keep the blood out of his eyes enough to see what was going on. One more punch laid him out, and he knocked his head against the pavement. “That’s enough, I think he’s learned his lesson,” Orris said. He spit on Six’s face before leading the others away.
Six lay there for a moment, focusing on breathing. Even the small movement of his diaphragm hurt. It had been a bad idea to blow his own cover without backup, but Six had already been beaten enough; he didn’t want to add any self-flagellation. His brain felt hazy, and he hoped he wasn’t going to pass out in the middle of the street. He had to get help. Slowly, carefully, he got to his knees and braced himself against a wall before getting up. It was slow going, staggering down the street, arms wrapped around himself as if he’d literally fall apart. The walk to the Old Mormon Fort seemed longer than his whole journey from Goodsprings.
He staggered inside the walls and looked around blearily—he could feel his left eye swelling, and he kept having to reach up and smear away the blood that trickled from his scalp. People bustled past him, doctors and patients alike. It was clearly a very busy place. Six felt overwhelmed, his legs barely able to hold him up. He walked towards the first tent he could see, hoping to find someone to help him. Just outside, he stumbled and sank down to his knees again, fighting back a groan of pain. His whole body hurt. He just wanted to lie down.
“Whoa, what happened to you?” a voice said. The man belonging to the voice had stepped out of the tent in front of which Six was about to pass out. Six looked up at him, his mind moving too slowly to produce coherent speech. The man looked like light, all bright and shining amid the dingy surroundings. “Hang in there, we’ll get you fixed up,” the man said. Six closed his eyes and allowed himself to be pulled up off the ground and into a tent.
The next thing Six knew, he was waking up on a mattress in a tent. He was naked to the waist, with bandages wrapped around his abdomen. There were some wound around his head as well. He felt sore all over, and his head was throbbing as it did so often. Glancing around himself, Six recalled that he’d gone to the Followers. They had apparently patched him up and put him in one of their tents. There were a few others lying on mattresses nearby; judging from the pale light streaming in through the flaps of the tent, it was early morning, maybe around 5am. Six sat up slowly, knowing that he’d feel dizzy if he took things too fast. His shirt and the few items he’d had with him were lying on the ground nearby. He dressed, made it to his feet, and left the tent silently, not wanting to disturb anyone else.
The courtyard was nearly empty except for a few guards. Six wandered around, unsure of what exactly he was looking for. He’d meant to pay a visit to the Followers, but he’d intended for it to be under different circumstances. He peeked into the tents he passed, but mostly found patients and doctors sleeping fitfully, or medical examinations that he hastily ducked out of. One tent at the very back of the fort didn’t seem to be inhabited at all on first glance. It was filled with desks and lockers, with books laid out everywhere. Six would have passed by the tent without another glance had it not been for the cacti. They were everywhere: in pots, cut open on medical trays, on slides under microscopes, drawn on diagrams. Six had seen cacti before, but they seemed shockingly out of place here. Had he not stopped to take it all in, he wouldn’t have noticed the man sitting at a desk in the corner.
“You should be resting,” the man said, barely looking up from the prickly specimen in front of him.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Six said simply.
The man looked up, shaking his head a little. “At least sit down,” he ordered, gesturing to the chair at the neighboring desk. “Don’t ruin all the work I did.”
Six accepted the invitation and took a seat. “So you’re the one who fixed me up?” he asked, looking over the doctor. Now it all came back to him, and Six was reminded of his first addled impression: the man really did somehow look like light. Probably the blond hair combined with the white lab coat. The doctor’s disposition was less sunny; he seemed closed-off and guarded.
“Yes. I’m mainly a researcher, but we’re so understaffed that everyone helps out where they can,” the man said. “I’m Dr. Arcade Gannon.”
“Arcade Gannon,” Six repeated, trying the name on his tongue. It was unusual, to say the least, but who was he to judge? “How much do I owe you?”
“We’re a free clinic,” Arcade explained. “But don’t use that as an excuse to get into any more bar fights.”
“Wasn’t in a bar,” Six said. “I’m only belligerent when sober.” Arcade snorted at that, then turned back to his notes. “What’s with all the cacti?” Six asked.
“Research. Trying to find out if any of the local flora has potential healing capabilities,” Arcade explained. “I think it’s safe to say no, at this point. We’re stuck relying on medicine that is in drastically short supply,” he said with barely-concealed frustration.
“Can I help?” Six asked. That seemed to be the question at the tip of his tongue lately. That, and ‘have you seen the man who shot me in the head?’
Arcade scoffed. “No offense, but if someone with sixteen years of medical training can’t make any breakthroughs, I doubt some drifter will be able to.”
Six’s brow furrowed. “Whatever’s got you so frustrated, don’t take it out on me, doc,” he warned. “First of all, I’m not a drifter. I know exactly where I’m going, I don’t drift. And second, I wasn’t offering to sit here and look at plants all day. I was offering to go collect supplies for the Followers.”
Arcade paused, averting his eyes with chagrin. “Excuse me. Sometimes I think I’ve spent so much time looking at cacti I’m starting to turn into one.” He smiled weakly. “All dried up and full of thorns. But…yes, we would appreciate your help. Talk to Julie Farkas, she’s in charge here.”
“Will do,” Six said, standing up gingerly.
“And take some med-x if the pain is too bad, but no more than three tablets per day, alright?” Arcade added authoritatively.
“Yes, sir,” Six said. “Thanks again,” he added, turning to go.
Arcade stood up as Six walked away. “Hold on,” he said quickly. “I know you’re not going to just walk out of here without even telling me your name. That would be rude.”
Six turned back to him almost sheepishly. “Six.”
“Six?” Arcade repeated. “Like, the number?”
“Yeah. I was a courier,” Six explained. “One of the only things I had on me when they found me was the order form. It kept referring to me as ‘Courier Six.’” Surprisingly, Arcade was the first person he’d met who inquired about the origin of his strange name.
Arcade stared at him blankly. “I’m not following. What do you mean, they found—oh,” he said, everything finally clicking into place. “You’re the one they’ve been talking about. The courier who was shot in the head. That explains the scar.”
Six nodded. “Yeah. They just called me Six because I can’t really…remember my name. Or anything from before when I woke up in Goodsprings.”
Arcade raised an eyebrow, his interest apparently piqued. “That’s some significant amnesia. Can I…?” he gestured to Six’s forehead.
Normally, Six wasn’t inclined to let strangers gawk at him, but he found himself nodding and took a step closer to Arcade. The man was tall, taller than Six by at least a few inches. Six couldn’t help noticing Arcade’s hands; they were large and firm, but he was clearly trying to be gentle as he held Six’s head and inspected the scar.
“This hasn’t healed properly. The doctor who fixed you, did he give you stiches?” Arcade asked, the authoritative bass of his voice filling the space between the two of them.
“Yeah,” Six said hesitantly. “They didn’t…last very long.” Arcade took his eyes off the scar and met Six’s gaze. Six, slightly ashamed, stared down at the floor. “They itched like hell. I took them out myself two days after leaving Goodsprings.”
Arcade sighed. “That explains it, then. You’re lucky you didn’t get an infection. Does it still hurt?” he asked, brushing his fingers gently over the mangled skin.
“Not…not on the outside,” Six explained. “But my brain hurts sometimes. Often. It feels like it’s swelling and my skull is going to crack open.”
“There may still be shrapnel inside,” Arcade mused quietly. “Perhaps something didn’t heal correctly on the inside as well.”
Six moved his head a little, meeting Arcade’s eyes and disturbing the doctor’s impromptu examination. “Can you fix it? Would that bring my memory back?” he asked. Six tried to keep his voice even, but he couldn’t help the glimmer of hope that shone through.
“We don’t have the equipment or facilities to do anything like that here,” Arcade said with a scoff. “We can barely maintain basic hygienic standards.”
“But if you did have the right tools and everything,” Six prompted him, suddenly eager. “Could you?”
Arcade looked at him more seriously, wary now. “It would…it’d be incredibly risky. We’d have to open up your skull again, and one wrong move could leave you worse off than you are now. It’s a miracle you’re even alive.”
Six sighed in frustration, trying to hide his disappointment. Sure, it was impressive that he could still walk and talk and all that, but what did any of that matter if he didn’t know who he was? Maybe there was a family somewhere waiting for him. Maybe he’d had some big dreams and goals for himself. Now, he had no one. Nothing. He tried to fight off the thoughts that had plagued him since waking up in Goodsprings. He was adrift, floating around the Mojave with no purpose, no allegiances, no direction.
“I’m sorry. I know that’s not the answer you were hoping for,” Arcade said. His tone wasn’t overly gentle, but rather factual and pragmatic. He didn’t seem to be a man who coddled others.
“Well, I suppose I have other ways of retrieving what I lost,” Six said, resolving not to wallow. Not now, at least. “Thanks again for patching me up.” With that, he turned to leave the tent. “See you around.”
“Take care, Six.”